


The Elvenking's Festival

by larkspyt



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:21:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkspyt/pseuds/larkspyt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard stumbles into an elvish festival by accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Elvenking's Festival

Bard had stumbled into the Elvenking’s festival purely by accident. His children having insisted he have an evening out, but Dagr being too tired to be good company, Bard had taken his barge up the river to enjoy the stars. He had not expected to be seduced by sweet music at the edge of the forest, nor to be lured further in by the sound of merriment and the smell of cooking meat. 

His nose led him to a large clearing filled with light from an unknown source. In the middle of the clearing were elves dancing to the accompaniment of harps and flutes. Tables were placed by the border of trees, piled high with more food and drink Bard had ever seen in one sitting. 

Spirits buoyed by the light-heartedness of the festivities, Bard palmed a piece of bread from the table and leaned against the gentle slope of an old tree as he watched the elves celebrate. He nearly choked when a pair of them abruptly left the dance and darted past him, hands clasped and giggling like children. They likely had not seen him, giddy as they were. Still, Bard spat out the bread and decided it was time to go home. 

Sigrid was waiting up for him at the kitchen table, darning one of Tilda’s old dresses by candlelight. “Did you have a good time with Dagr?” she asked. 

“Yes,” said Bard, thinking to save the truth for a bedtime story the following night. 

“Did you know the wood elves are celebrating a festival today?” said Sigrid as Bard tucked her in without too much protest, so tired she was. “I wish I could have seen it. I heard it is three days’ long. Can you imagine?”

x

The next day, Bard returned to the forest to pick up the wine barrels at the river. He was not surprised that there were more of them than usual. As he worked steadily, pulling in barrel after barrel, his gaze wandered towards the forest. His imagination had already been piqued by Sigrid’s words the previous night, but now that he was here again, both imagination and curiosity burned away at his natural reticence. He anchored his barge to the riverbank and retraced his steps to the clearing. 

Vibrant blossoms had sprouted overnight in the middle of the space and the musicians have moved from the edges to sit amongst the flowers. The melody was slower than the one Bard had heard before, but no less cheerful. Feeling the restorative effects on his spirits once more, Bard smiled and continued his role of invisible spectator from behind a tree. 

Then an elf approached him from behind and invited him to dance. Bard demurred. He wasn’t an elf. He’d not been invited. He didn’t know the steps. But the elf smiled and said, “I have no one to dance with. Would you begrudge me a partner?”

As it turned out, there was no need for Bard to know the steps. He copied whatever the elf did with relative ease, flushing when other elves begged dances from him too. 

It was strange being so wanted like this when he was considered an unsavoury character in his own town. People liked him well enough but did not befriend him for fear of incurring the Master’s ill will. 

Bard danced two more dances and returned to his barge, but not before the elves extracted a promise from him: that he would return the next day for the closing of their celebrations. 

x

The following day, Bard’s barge sprung a leak. He spent the entire day repairing it and attending to other tasks of maintenance. By the time he woke up from his nap, the sun had long sunk beneath the horizon. 

Dread danced a little jig in the back of Bard’s mind. He had no notion of when the elvish festivities actually ended. Was it worth making a trip up the river at such a late hour? At last, he packed some food and a bedroll, deciding that it was better to spend the night in the forest than to renege on a promise. 

Steering his barge with only a lamp made him slow to reach the forest, but all impatience fled when he heard laughter coming from the clearing he has grown familiar with. Leaving his things in the barge, Bard approached, hoping to find his friends. He paused in his search only to stare the throne which had not been there yesterday. 

It was wrought of yew and sat in an alcove made by the natural curve of the trees around it. Bard stepped closer to better admire it and as he did so, spotted from the corner of his eye the elf who surely must be the owner of said throne. 

He was taller than the other elves and wore a crown of winterberries. He stood by a retinue, surveying the merriment before him with a haughtiness only lordship could kindle. Bard had heard many tales of the cold, dangerous Elvenking. Since he had not encountered him the previous two days, Bard had not thought he was in danger of running into him. 

Spine freezing with trepidation, Bard backed away slowly, hoping to go away unnoticed. But the Elvenking saw before he could duck behind a tree and the intensity of his aged gaze pinned Bard to the spot. 

“And who is this who has come to my party uninvited?” His gaze was two pinpricks of ice in the middle of a smooth, impassive face. It gave him the impression of being carved of marble. Having never been confronted by something so cold and beautiful, Bard took a step back and averted his eyes. 

“A simple man who will be on his way. By your leave,” he said, wetting his lips nervously. 

“I do not give it.” 

The music stopped. 

Bard froze. He thought of his children, lying asleep at home, never knowing the fate of their father should the Elvenking choose to keep him prisoner. Elves were immortal. Bard would die in the Elvenking’s dungeons before he even remembered he had taken Bard. 

“I will not give it until you agree to dance with me,” said the Elvenking. 

The music started again, something soft and sweet. But Bard did not notice that. His mind crammed with thoughts of an ignoble death far away from his children, Bard was leaden with fear as he nodded at the Elvenking. He never should have meddled with elves. 

As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Bard ran. His legs ached from the many, many times he had stood up with the Elvenking. After the eight, tenth, or was the thirteenth dance, Bard pretended to retreat to get refreshments and instead sprinted into the trees towards the river. 

He rowed home, too nervous to look over his shoulder to see if he was pursued. He reassured himself with the argument that he was a lowly bargeman of no consequence to anyone but his children. He has collected barrels from the elvish kingdoms for twenty odd years without the elves taking any notice of him and he could continue for twenty years more without being noticed. 

Legs and arms sore, Bard collapsed onto his bed, too tired for even anxiety to keep him from sleep. 

x

There was a weight pressing down on him when Bard came to. He opened his eyes to Tilda, his youngest, sitting on his stomach. Stroking her side fondly and yawning wide, he asked after her morning and if Sigrid has prepared breakfast. 

“Sigrid and Bain have gone to the square. I told them I’d stay with you until you wake up. You should hurry up, da. The elves have come to visit and I don’t want to miss them.” 

Bard sat up so abruptly Tilda fell off the bed. Surely they were here on other business. Surely they weren’t looking for him. He had done nothing, or was running from their king such a great insult that they were here to demand recompense? They were going to drag him out an let his fellow townspeople laugh at him. Bard could already imagine the tone of Alfrid’s sneer. “Always knew that Bard was trouble. Didn’t I say? Gone off and angered the elves he has.” 

Wiping his hand down his face, Bard got up and took Tilda’s hand. Perhaps the elves might have mercy on him for her sake, if not his. 

The town square was packed with every inhabitant of Laketown jostling for a view. It took tremendous effort and Tilda begging everyone’s pardons to get to the front of the throng, where a small squadron of elves in golden armour stood in attention before the steps of the Master’s house. The Master appeared to be attempting to appease the elf standing over him; unsuccessfully if his uneasy grin was anything to go by. 

Peering closer, Bard realised it was the elf who had first invited him to dance on the second day of the festival. “Legolas?”

The elf turned and lit up upon seeing Bard. He skipped down the steps with an easy grace only elves could achieve and clasped Bard’s shoulder with a warm smile. “How glad I am to have found you, my friend. You had gone without leaving your name. I’d feared we would have to search the entire town for you.”

So they _were_ here for him. “But why?” said Bard weakly. 

Legolas gestured at the squadron of armoured guards, who came forward and set down two barrels of wine and chest of expensive cloth. One elf stepped towards Bard with a beautiful garland of white flowers that made several of the younger girls in the crowd sigh with envy. 

Bard leaned back and away from the elf with the garland. “I don’t understand.”

“My father enjoyed dancing with you yesterday. These gifts are meant to convey the extent of his pleasure,” said Legolas. 

“Such lavish gifts are not necessary. Please, tell him - tell him I am simply honoured that he wished to dance with me.” And that he did not throw me into his dungeons, Bard added silently. “And that he liked those dances.” Legolas frowned at him, but Bard stood his ground. Had Tilda not been holding his hand, he most likely would have apologised and folded like gossamer. 

“Regardless, _ada_ has given these as gifts so they are now yours,” said Legolas. 

“If you don’t want the wine, I’ll take them off your hands,” said Dagr, ducking when his wife tried to pinch his ear. 

“And I’ll take the cloth,” said Alfrid, who knew how much the merchant caravans would pay for such rare material. 

Tilda tugged Bard’s hand. “Can I have the flowers then?” she asked, at which point, the elf knelt down and placed the garland over her head.

In this way, the Elvenking’s gifts for Bard were distributed, improving his life only through Tilda’s delight at the flowers, but also introducing more chaos to it because even after the elves left, the people continued to point at Bard and whisper. “He danced with the king.” “The Elvenking likes him.” “Why dirty old Bard? I should go seduce the elf-king.”

By all means, Bard was more than happy for the young and beautiful girls of Laketown to seduce the Elvenking because the following week, Legolas returned with an elvish bow and a new barge. “I was informed you are a bargeman, so my father commissioned this to be made for you, and this bow for when you encounter troubles on your journeys.”

Bard stammered and tried to refuse them again, but Legolas pressed the bow into his hands and said it fitted him well. “Your father thinks too well of me,” Bard insisted. 

Even though these gifts were presented to him at the edge of the town, by nightfall, everyone knew Bard was one sword and one boat richer. Through the same mode of gossip, it was known that the cobbler asked Bard for the barge because he’d lost his own boat to wood rot and could not afford another. As for the bow, Bard had relinquished it to his son, Bain, who was thrilled to have a proper one to practice with. 

Then one morning, Bard was awoken by a hailstorm of knocks upon his door. When he opened it, Dagr and the cobbler seized him and hauled him to the square, where the Master was being intimidated to squeaks by the king of Mirkwood. Upon spotting Bard, the Master grabbed him by the shoulders and set him before the Elvenking like a sacrificial offering. 

Bard swallowed, back going stiff with terror. The Elvenking was every bit as beautiful as Bard remembered. He tilted his head to one side, as if considering him, and the curtain of his silky, silver hair parted to reveal a pointed ear that Bard was immediately transfixed by. The last time he had been close enough to notice the Elvenking’s ears, they had been dancing. His blood had been running high. The Elvenking had laughed at him and Bard had been terrified. 

“It seems you will not accept any of my gifts for yourself,” said the Elvenking after a stretch of uncomfortable silence. “I would be insulted but I have come to realise that I have not made my intentions plain enough.” The Elvenking was standing so near him Bard could see the flecks of pale gold in his irises. Bard would move away, regain some of his personal space, but there was magic in the Elvenking’s eyes and Bard could not breathe much less move. Sensing his own power over Bard, the Elvenking touched Bard’s chin. “Will you accept my request to court you?”

The question was so unexpected that Bard broke out of his trance and leapt backwards. “What?” He tried to backtrack even further but Dagr and the cobbler blocked his path. He glared at them but they only smirked. “I’m sorry, but it’s all very sudden. We have only known each other for one night.”

“With your kind, I have to be quick. The life of a Man is a blink of an eye for an Elf.” Lips quirking, the Elvenking added, “Like that other night, I took my eyes off you for one moment and you were gone. You must have run very fast.”

As fast as he would have if he had wargs on his tail but Bard wasn’t going to admit that. “As I said, this happened all so quickly, my lord. If you would permit me time to consider your request I would be … most … grateful.” He held his breath until the Elvenking bowed his solemn head. 

“Indeed, it is not an easy request. Very few have the courage to love me,” said the Elvenking. Behind him, Legolas stiffened, his frown growing ever deeper. “But I hope you will prove brave enough, Bard the Bowman.”

It was the first time the Elvenking addressed Bard by name. In spite all the warnings in his head, despite all his fear, it made him want to be brave. 

x

The next time the festival was held, Bard went with his children. He stayed for all three days instead of snatches of hours. He sang to the flutes, ate bread with his children, and whenever he could, he danced with Legolas. Spinning in circles in the middle of the clearing, he looked up to the stars and praised life with the elves. And when at last, he tired himself out, he retreated into the circle of the Elvenking’s arms. 

Ten months have done little to lessen the mystery that was the Elvenking. He was older than the oldest tree in the forest and that made him more unknowable than the shadow of a waterfall. His temper was fierce, fleeting and his heart surrounded by a sheet of ice. Still, there was a stuttering tenderness when he touched Bard, when he looked at his children. As daunting as it was to remain with him, Bard couldn’t help that leap in his chest whenever that ancient king smiled.

From across the clearing, Legolas beamed and spun Sigrid in dance, and Bain and Tilda giggled when she tripped over herself. Bard felt the Elvenking’s smile against the curve of his ear. There it was again. Bard swallowed down the skip of his heart. Twice more when the Elvenking leaned down and in that deep timbre of his, said, “Oh Bard,” and enfolded him deeper still in his embrace as the night roared with music and laughter around them.


End file.
